


Reception

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alcohol, Anger, Angst, Cecil as Narrator, Episode Style, Episode: e053 The September Monologues, Episode: e110 Matryoshka, F/M, Family Drama, Family Issues, Humor, Insults, Pre-Canon, Siblings, Speeches, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, Weather, Wedding Reception, Weddings, but spoilers for/references to:, plus others - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-30 00:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16275533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: Cecil gives a speech at his sister’s wedding.





	Reception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deanlockiradall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlockiradall/gifts).



> On the way home from seeing A Spy in the Desert, Deanlockiradall and I came up with the idea of Cecil giving this speech. When I got home, the words came to me, and I wrote them down. So, Deanlockiradall, thank you for the excellent trip, and I hope you enjoy Cecil being an angsty asshole.

We are here tonight to celebrate the mar—  
We are here tonight to celebra—  
_Ahem.  
_ We are here. Tonight.

Welcome, Night Vale.

Let me begin by saying a few words about family. Family is… family is like the screen door of a porch. Transparent, so you can see the acquaintances and snarling beasts that prowl the neighborhood, and so the Sheriff’s Secret Police can see you. Screened, to allow in the fresh, dusty air of the desert, and to keep out those pesky mosquitoes and bloated desert flies. And with a good strong lock, so you can keep out neighborhood children with sticky fists, unnamed, faceless strangers, and anyone, _anyone_ , who can’t override that lock with their own blood.

I… don’t remember much about my childhood. But I do remember that screen door. Weathered blue wood… or maybe it was green? That corner of the screen that tore one summer, that time when those flying sand snakes came through. My sister, Abby— that’s her right there, I’m sure you’ve all noticed— Abby patched the tear with duct tape and chanting, and the two of us huddled safely inside, listening to sand snakes thump and splatter outside as they learned about physical barriers.

Abby offered to hold my hand. Unfortunately, I was at the age where I’d decided that things like being comforted, holding hands, and having an older sister were marks of immaturity and childhood. Best shoved away and never acknowledged again. That day, I curled in on myself and listened to the sound of snakes dying at high velocity and pretended I was alone.

Abby, I know now that you were doing your best, that the venomous swarm outside scared you more than you ever showed me. I should have reached out. I wonder, if I _had_ reached out, if I had made one different decision somewhere along the line, if things would have turned out differently.

If we would not be here today.

But we are. And look. I’m not prepared to give a speech. There was no decision made ahead of time, no practicing in front of the microphones hidden in the potted plants that fill my house but I didn’t even buy, and there is nothing written on these notecards that I am staring at and then meticulously shredding. That’s just so I have something to do with my hands.

To be fair, I was, actually, asked. When this whole _wedding_ thing was nothing more than the early divisions of those first mutated, cancerous cells, Abby approached me— after not contacting me for three weeks— broke the news, and asked me to be a part of the wedding party. She suggested bridesmaid, because of course I’m on her side. Of the family, and also of the inevitable, bloody battle that will split this union apart. You know what they say about marriage: “till death do take the weaker spouse.”

I declined. Which is a real shame because the dress Abby chose for her replacement bridesmaids are _adorable,_ but I had to. Abby then suggested I be the best man, or at least one of the men on the _other_ side of the party, and I declined that too. At this point, I hadn’t even met the groom, so it would have been silly for me to pretend to be his best friend. Or maybe not. I don’t even know if he _has_ friends. As of right now, I’ve had exactly one conversation with him and, I’ll be honest, he doesn’t seem like the kind of person _anyone_ would want as a friend. But I guess there’s no accounting for taste. Even when it’s _terrible._

Abby said “but you’ll come at least, right?” and I said “of course,” because I’m not an awful brother. But I said it kind of through gritted teeth, because I didn’t really want to. Then she said, “maybe you could give a speech or something?” I responded with a firm _no._ “No way,” I said. “you know I don’t approve of this wedding. And I don’t like giving speeches! I don’t even like _talking!_ ”

In case you couldn’t tell, that last part was a total lie. I love talking. And I love giving speeches. It’s my job and my passion as a radio host. But I made it sound extra convincing by waving my arms above my head and pacing back and forth.

Eventually Abby got the idea and left. And everyone, including me, assumed I wasn’t going to say anything. I was going to show up, suffer through a ceremony that made me gag, pick at disgustingly sugary cake, fake a smile, and then leave. But it turns out I have some things I’ve just _got_ to say, so… I’m saying them. Obviously.

Abby and I may not have always gotten along, we may have sometimes really _really_ not gotten along, but recently, after she moved back to Night Vale, our relationship improved. We bonded over taking care of Janice, her daughter and my niece. Things were good. And then Abby decided to get a boyfriend who became a fiancé and then, this afternoon, a—ugh— husband. And that was enough to undo, like, seven months of tentatively reconstructed relationship. Great job, Abby.

Okay, I see a few of you standing up and glaring like you want to stop me from talking. And I see you there, Teddy Williams of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, raising a bowling pin like you’re going to throw it at me. And I know, I know. Not only was I not on the program, this isn’t even the part of the reception where speeches are generally given. It’s late, and you’re all pretty tipsy and ready to go home, and here’s this asshole standing on a table telling you way too much about his personal life. But please. Listen to what I have to say. This is an important, life-changing day for so many people. And I want to interpret it, as I always do, through my words.

Just. Give me a few more minutes, okay? Please. Abby, they’ll listen to you.

Or… Or your new husband, I guess. For some reason. I mean, _I_ wouldn’t listen to the guy.

Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for letting my emotions get in the way of clear, unbiased speech-making. That’s very unprofessional of me.

Abby. These past few years, while they weren’t easy on either of us, were some of the happiest in my life. It was good to get close to you. Close to Janice. You’ve thrown a lot of words my way recently, like “selfish” and “impossible to understand” and “someone who lies to me.” And, I don’t know. I probably deserve them. But earlier you used other words, like “sweet” and “understanding” and “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” That’s who I want to be. That’s who I’m _trying_ to be.

And that brings me to Janice, my wonderful niece. I’m sure this is a big day for her too. She’s over there, next to her mom. You were the ceremony’s ring bearer, right Janice? And you did _amazing._ If any of you haven’t seen her yet, she looks _gorgeous_ in her sparkly dress, and her wheelchair is decked out in green and fuchsia to match the wedding aesthetics.

Janice, I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to you about how you feel tonight. I haven’t seen you since your sixth birthday party, seven months ago, which I left early because I heard your mom’s boyfriend was going to be there and I didn’t want to meet him. I’m sorry about that. I want to be a good uncle. I want to be the _best_ uncle.

Growing up, from what I remember—which again, isn’t much—is a terrifying experience. The world is vast and unknowable, and you are so very small. When you speak, no one wants to listen, because you’re too young, or they’re too old, or you both lack the words to reach any sort of shared understanding. The rules of the world change constantly. Some people disappear. Other people become different, so different they might as well have disappeared. You become different. And sometimes, for a few moments, you disappear.

Janice, I can’t protect you from that. But I can promise to be here for you. To do my best to keep you safe from uncertainty, and from the unknown.

I wish I’d talked to you before today. I don’t know what you’re feeling, but I can guess. You’re scared, because today is bringing changes you don’t really understand. You’re excited, because you had a very important job, and you _nailed_ it. You’re probably bored, now, because your Uncle Cecil is giving a very long speech, and people are getting upset at him, and okay, okay, I’ll get on with it, I promise, but to be fair, I’m not the only one who’s been really boring tonight. The ceremony itself? The speech from whoever that “best man” was? Ugh.

So now we get to the groom. The man my sister supposedly loves, the man I met for the first time this evening, the man who is wiping overly sweaty palms on his nicest pair of pants (which aren’t even that nice to begin with) as he wonders what I have to say to him.

_Steve Carlsberg._

Steve Carlsberg is the man my sister has decided to open the porch door for, confident that he is not a flying snake in disguise. He’s the man she wants to have breakfast with, and dinner, and sometimes lunch, when they both have time. The one she wants to hold her at night while they contemplate the void, the one she wants to stand by her side during a crisis. _This man._

Look at this man, this _Steve Carlsberg,_ and be harsh in your judgement.

It is customary, in Night Vale, to greet interlopers with suspicion. Strangers in our town are shouted at and chased away before they cause irreparable damage. It’s not only tradition, it is the law. And a town is only as strong as the families within it, so I am perfectly justified, no, it is my _duty_ to treat any interlopers into my family, what little family I have left, with the same apprehension.

So I ask you, assorted guests: What does _Steve_ bring to this marriage? Is he going to be a good husband? A good step-father? Does he know what Abby and Janice need from him? Sure, he’s got a stable job at a bank that pays well and has consistent hours, sure he’s given Abby a lot of support recently (even though she was already getting that from me), but he also has a truly _terrible_ mustache. I mean, look at that thing, right?

But the real question is: can he keep them safe?

And the real answer is: no. No one can.

But _especially_ not Steve Carlsberg. When I met him, for the first time ever, earlier today, he started talking to me about these, these lines and dots and things in the sky. Things that are obviously fake and I do not believe in. Things that are probably classified information he shouldn’t even notice, let alone acknowledge. Everyone knows there is _nothing_ in the sky except for government helicopters.

Oh, and then he started talking about those too, and if that wasn’t enough, he _continued_ by acknowledging the representatives of a vague-yet-menacing government agency that were watching us. Like, they could obviously read his lips, even behind that terrible mustache, and he just _kept talking._ About what they do, where they get their orders, what they’re looking for… And _nobody_ needs to know any of that. Nobody _should_ know any of that. To question such things, to fabricate knowledge, shakes the very foundation of our entire town.

And I ask you, guests: what kind of husband shares illegal information openly, at his own wedding? What kind of step-father is practically begging for re-education, a process that will not only take him out of the home, but might damage or erase the memories of his own step-daughter? The most perfect child in the entire world? What kind of traitor openly shares this knowledge with strangers, with friends, with _family,_ dooming them to probable re-education too?

_Steve Carlsberg_ would. Steve Carlsberg _has._

So guests. Citizens. Listeners. You have been listening, wondering about the intention of this speech. Which theatrical ending would I choose? I imagine some of you expected, even now, that I would reveal a begrudging but thorough change of heart about Steve.

Well here’s there reason, folks. We are not here tonight to celebrate the marriage of Abby Palmer and Steve Carlsberg. No.

We are here to end it.

Are you with me, Night Vale? Steve Carlsberg has been speaking forbidden truths, and if that’s not legal grounds to cancel, nullify, erase a wedding, then what is? We want our secrets! We want our safety! We want family to mean something! We don’t want—

Oh, shit. Abby. Abby what are you—

* * *

_Cecil Gershwin Palmer!_ Is this really what you’re going to do tonight? Cause a scene at my wedding? Try to incite my own friends to riot against me? All because you’ve decided to hate a man you’ve barely even met?

You talk about us being siblings as though it means something to you. As though a few miserable years of childhood mean that we’ve got more in common than we could ever have with anyone else. If that was true then you’d be happy for me, or at least you’d be pretending. At least you’d be _civil._

Do you know what else that screen door kept out? Well-meaning neighbors. The secret police officer that tried to help us for months before she was relocated for getting too involved. Do you know what the screen door kept in?

Us.

Just us, Cecil.

Also, it was painted red.

Cecil, I’m not an orator and I don’t pretend to be. That’s why I’m not talking to the guests, I’m talking to you. You say no one listened when you were a kid? Well no one listens to me now _._ The only one who does is Steve Carlsberg, because _he loves me_. And I love him back.

He’s not going to put us in danger. I’ll bet he’s been reeducated less than you have. He’s _kind._ And if he talks, at least it’s not on that _fucking_ radio, so everyone can learn just what kind of stress I’m under!

I don’t care if you were happy before Steve came into the picture. I wasn’t. But I am now, and I’m trying to cling to that.

I don’t care what you want, Cecil. It’s too late for me to care. Steve and Janice and I want to be a family. And we’re going to be. With you or without you. And after today? _Without._

Cecil. You should leave.

Oh no. Don’t you _dare_ try to get out of this by going to—

* * *

[The Weather.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKPPORB3Idc)

* * *

Hey everybody. It’s me, Steve Carlsberg, though you all definitely knew that already, haha. 

I just wanted to say thank you for staying here with us, with me and Abby and Janice, and thank you for not turning into the angry mob Cecil wanted you to and chasing us out of our own reception. I bet some of you even agree with him. I know most people don’t like me much. I know most of you are friends of Abby’s and think she’s too good for me, and you’d be right. But you didn’t start rioting and come after me, so, that’s something.

Wow, I can see a lot from this table Cecil was standing on. I can see my house from here! We just bought one a few blocks over, and I think I can see the chimney if I stand sideways like this. Oh, and there’s Abby dragging Cecil away towards the Secret Police Officer who parked their van across the street. They’re yelling at each other, Cecil and Abby are. I think she’s going to turn him in for drunk and disorderly conduct without a license.

It’s weird to think about, but if that’s Cecil drunk, then I don’t know anything about him sober. He could act completely differently, like a person who doesn’t ruin someone else’s wedding for no reason. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt, anyway. I’ve listened to his show, and when he’s not talking about me but pretending it’s somebody else, he seems pretty nice. But maybe he’d have done what he did no matter what. He’d have gotten up there and told me I wasn’t cut out to be a husband or a step-father.

Heh. He sure has a way with words, doesn’t he?

The truth is, I can’t say he’s wrong. I’ve never been a husband or a step-father before. I don’t know how to do right by Abby and Janice. The truth is, all those questions he was asking you? I’ve been asking the same things of myself. Except I don’t think he’s right about the mustache. I _like_ this mustache, you know? I think it suits me. I was clean-shaven a few years ago, but then I’d look at my face and go “something isn’t right about this.” And I couldn’t figure it out until I started growing a mustache. And at first it _was_ terrible, but I grew it out, and I take good care of it, and it looks right now. Don’t you think?

He’s right about another thing, too, Cecil is. I’m not going to stop talking about the glowing arrows and circles and dotted lines in the sky. I see them. Have any of you ever seen them? Would you admit it if you had? I look up in the night sky and I see, and even though I can’t understand the symbols, I know they’re explaining the entire universe. Sometimes I stand outside, under the sky, and I try to write them out on a piece of paper, with whatever writing tool is legal at the time. I think that if I could just record the glowing arrows and dotted lines, maybe I could share them with someone who _does_ understand. But it never comes out right. The symbols keep moving, and I can’t really capture something on two-dimensional paper that exists in a space with three dimensions and more. Especially not with sticks dipped in food paste.

I’m not trying to get myself re-educated. No way! And I don’t want to get Abby or Janice in trouble. But the dotted lines are real, so real that no government can legislate them away. They’ve tried to make me stop seeing, but it’s never taken.

Abby can’t see them. We’ve talked about it. She’s not in any danger, not any more danger than anyone is. I don’t know if Janice can see them. I haven’t asked her yet. But I will. Not because I want to get her in trouble, but because if she can’t see the dotted lines and circles and glowing arrows, I won’t be able to show them to her. And if she can, then I have to tell her she’s not alone.

Oh, Janice, you’re still here, over with Josie, and I shouldn’t be talking like you’re not. I’ll explain it to you later, okay? All of it. Well, as much as I can. Right now me and your mom and your uncle Cecil, we’re all pretty upset. But none of it’s cause of you, I promise you that.

You know, I said earlier that I should really try and meet Cecil before the ceremony today. I did! I knew he didn’t like me, or at least the idea of me, but I’ve been not liked before. Lots of times, in fact.

Abby didn’t like that idea. She’d get this sort of nervous frown and say “he’ll come around,” and “don’t worry about it,” and I believed her. I think she had to believe that was true, cause it’d be hard to plan a wedding expecting it to end like this. And I didn’t try that hard to convince her otherwise. I thought maybe if I just focused on how much I loved Abby, it wouldn’t matter how much the rest of her family didn’t love me.

I do love her. I love Janice. I wish Cecil could _see_ that. I didn’t want our wedding to end like this, everybody upset, their nice clothes ruined by Weather nobody had dressed for.

You know, I… I said I wasn’t going to cry today. I already broke that promise during the ceremony, but I didn’t mind so much then. Now I just— I can’t—

Thank you all for being here to celebr— for being here to— for being here. Tonight.

I’m gonna find Abby.

G’night.

**Author's Note:**

> Today’s weather was “When In Rome” by Nickel Creek. 
> 
> Today’s proverb: Wearing those overalls means you’re secretly part of a cult. An overall cult. I don’t make the rules.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I’d love to know what you think. Leave a comment, or come find me on tumblr @dwarven-beard-spores.


End file.
